The [the early 1970s] and now, homosexuals were and still are afraid to be seen as queer. Then and now, they knew and still know that nothing else could haunt their attempt to be ‘ethical,’ in the restricted sense that prevails in America, as much as sex. Then as now, they bargained and still bargain for a debased pseudo-dignity, the kind that is awarded as a bribe for disavowing the indignity of sex and the double indignity of a politics around sex. The result has always been a set of hierarchies. Those whose sex is least threatening, along with those whose gender profiles seem least queer, are put forward as the good and acceptable face of the movement. These, inevitably, are the ones who are staying home making dinner for their boyfriends, for whom being gay means reading Newsweek. The others, the queers who have sex in public toilets, who don’t ‘come out’ as happily gay, the sex workers, the lesbians who are too vocal about a taste for dildos so S/M, the boys who flaunt it as pansies or as leathermen, the androgynes, the trannies or transgendered whose gender deviance makes them unassimilable to the menu of sexual orientations, the clones in the so-called gay ghetto, the fist-fuckers and popper-snorters, the ones who actually like pornography—all these flaming creatures are told, in an earnestness that betrays no glimmer of its own grotesque comedy, that their great moment of liberation and acceptance will come later, when we ‘no longer see our lives solely in terms of struggle,’ when we get to be abou t’more than sexuality’—when, say, gay marriage is given the force of law. Free at last!